


Bright Young Things

by metonymy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Het, On the Run, criminals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/pseuds/metonymy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She shouldn't get to be happy. They're in hiding, for God's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Young Things

**Author's Note:**

> For a writing challenge, prompt was "too soon to tell." Thanks to Scriblix for letting me borrow her Eames's pseudonym.

Sometimes she thinks she's happy. That doesn't seem right, or fair, in a lot of ways. She shouldn't get to be happy. They're in hiding, for God's sake, and the only reason she doesn't substitute the phrase _on the run_ is because he decided that it was time to stop and start new cover identities, because otherwise they'd keep risking discovery by crossing borders. She shouldn't be content or calm, she should be on edge. There's no point man to do it for them anymore. Maybe she's just too damn tired to stay that way.

He's Andrew Earnshaw now, teaching art to schoolchildren as enrichment courses. He's lost weight and looks ten years younger now that he's shaving every day, has grown his hair out and exchanged tweed and loose wool slacks for jeans and polo shirts and long-sleeved tee shirts under them. (She always told him all those tattoos were useless for an internationally wanted criminal.) His accent is always modulated now, just a faint hint to sound eccentric rather than obviously foreign, except when they're in bed and he's mouthing words into her shoulder or her thigh. He smiles and looks endearingly puppyish, not dangerous. Sometimes she hardly recognizes him at all.

And she's Catherine, her hair cut short and straightened every day, the color three shades darker and severe enough that it makes her look her real age instead of the perpetual high-schooler, skirts and sweaters and heels disguising her as the library aide. She shelves and reads stories to small children and blushes prettily when mothers tell her she'll be a wonderful mom some day. The concept of having children with the life she leads, with the man she fucks in the shower, is completely alien to her.

They're a disgustingly normal and charming young couple, to all appearances. No matter that the identities have lasted as long as the ink on their fake drivers' licenses, or that they're homebodies because they don't want to attract too much attention. They look like a real couple to outsiders, and they manage to hide enough of their fear and look like they're in love. Never mind that half the time they don't speak to each other inside their apartment, or that the other half they're having sex to try and convey the emotions they don't want to express in words. They depend on each other and they are obviously attracted to each other. That seems to fool people.

She catches herself finding comfort in her new routines, in stopping for a morning coffee at the local cafe that makes her miss Paris enough to cry, in visiting the farmers' market on Sunday mornings and getting terrible Chinese food on Thursdays after he has his late class in sculpting, and one day she even stops to look at the animal shelter's crowd of dogs that are sitting in the spring sunshine and yelping adorably and waiting to be adopted. Which is maybe the most foolish thing she's done since she got into this mess. Someday Arthur or Yusuf will call and tell them to pack up their things and run again, or that the heat's finally off them, or that Saito's managed to quell Fischer once and for all. But for now she has to wait day by day, not start building a real life with her fake fiance in a quaint little town that's starting to wind its tendrils around her neck like a noose.


End file.
